


Fire and Ice

by Frances_J_Irnok



Series: Cracks in the Ice [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Danger, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation, One Shot, Paris (City), Series, Sex, Sexual Content, mythea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frances_J_Irnok/pseuds/Frances_J_Irnok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes has a meeting with diplomats from several other countries in secret.  At least, it was supposed to be secret.  When the first shots were fired it was plain that this secret conclave was anything but. </p>
<p>When he and Anthea escape with their lives, they take comfort in one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire and Ice

Paris, some years ago.  

Mycroft Holmes has a meeting with diplomats from several other countries in secret.  At least, it was supposed to be secret.  When the first shots were fired it was plain that this secret conclave was anything but.    
  
Anthea, Mycroft’s assistant-cum-bodyguard of three years, was in motion immediately.  She secured Mycroft in the mahogany-paneled conference room and whirled out the door, weapon drawn.  A staccato of gunfire rang out in the hallway and Mycroft began to smell smoke.  Not just the smell of gunpowder: the smell of a building burning.    
  
Anthea burst back through the door, her eyes bright and sharp.  She nodded to him and slapped a panel in the wall, revealing a hidden passageway.  They moved to escape through the newly-revealed exit, but they were soon pushed back by an encroaching wall of flames.  Back in the conference room, Anthea quickly calculated their options.    
  
“You’re wearing the Kevlar, yes?” She asked curtly. Mycroft nodded.    
“Good,” she responded, crossing the room and smashing open an expensively-paned window.  

The sound of the breaking glass alerted Mycroft’s would-be assassins that he and Anthea were still holed up in the conference room, and they began working at the door from the other side with battering ram-like kicks.  

Anthea took Mycroft’s face in her hands and forced their eyes to meet. Her gaze bored into his very core.    
“We’re only two floors up.  You’ll have to jump. There are bushes below.  You know how to land.  A car will come for you. The code word is “les enfants.”  Do **not** get into the vehicle unless the driver says the code.  Get as far away from here as you can, as swiftly as possible.”  She retrieved a silenced handgun from a shoulder holster.  “Use this as a last resort if you’re abducted. Now _go_!” Mycroft nodded just once, solemnly, and took a deep breath before launching himself out the window the way he’d been taught.  He landed hard onto the bushes below, cursing to discover that flames had already engulfed the entire first floor of the building.  He stood up swiftly as a black car came screeching around the corner, the passenger door flying open.    
  
“LES ENFANTS!” The driver screamed out to him.  Mycroft leapt into the vehicle and slammed the door, alarmed to discover that they were being followed.  The driver seemed prepared, however, and expertly navigated the Paris streets until Mycroft’s would-be assassins were well behind them.  The driver sighed with relief and said in broken English,   
  
“Monsieur Holmes, l’aide gave me instructions.”   
Mycroft smoothed his now-tattered suit that reeked of smoke and answered back in perfect French.  The driver nodded, pleased to be speaking a language with which he was comfortable, and expertly drove the car to a hotel other than the one Mycroft and Anthea had checked into hours previously.  The driver pulled to a stop in front of the opulent hotel and turned to Mycroft, saying only, “la Fête Nationale.”  

Mycroft nodded and thanked the man, getting out of the sleek black car and entering the hotel lobby.  “Bastille Day” was a code he and Anthea had worked out.  It was a way for her to let him know that, should they be separated, he was to lie low where he was and that she would be to him shortly.  If she was not back to him within 6 hours, he was to return to Britain and disavow all knowledge of her.  It was a harsh reality, but they both knew the risks.  

 

Mycroft gratefully accepted the keycard that was offered to him when he inquired at the reservations desk.  Still dazed from the fire he’d just escaped, he made his way to his room and found that there was a suitcase there waiting, identical to the one that had been unpacked that morning at their previous hotel.  He stripped off his torn suit and stepped into a steaming hot shower, never bothering to doubt that Anthea would be waiting for him when he was finished.  

 

When he had dressed himself in a fresh suit and returned to the living area of the suite, he was crestfallen to find it completely empty.  It had been nearly two hours since the meeting had been ambushed.  He poured a drink to calm his nerves, and paced the length of the room.  Finding a remote he clicked on the television, scanning for a news channel.  He found one just in time to read a scrolling headline. “Historic Paris building consumed by fire, blaze has not been contained.”    
Mycroft softly set his drink down on the coffee table before him and rested his head in his hands.  

He did not allow himself to be shaken for long, however.  He was a man of action.  He began reaching out to contacts, trying to determine exactly who had sabotaged his meeting and why.  He called for a private plane to be dispatched to Charles de Gaulle airport, and alternated texting and calling Anthea every five minutes on the dot.  He never got a response from her.  Four hours slipped into five and he knew what he would soon have to do - to leave Paris and make his way to the airport and the waiting plane, abandoning Anthea.  His heart dropped into his stomach and his hands trembled and grew cold.  He struggled to keep himself together, to maintain his steely facade in the face of the fear and adrenaline which was pumping through his veins.  

At five hours and forty-five minutes, as he was about to call for a taxi to the airport, he heard a rattle at the door of his suite.  Hand on the gun Anthea had given him, he took a defensive stance just in case.  But all thoughts of defending himself were abandoned when he saw Anthea herself walk through the door, exhausted and filthy but alive.  Blissfully, blessedly alive.

He gasped and whispered her name prayerfully, crossing the room in two strides and folding her into his arms.  

Dizzy and shaken by all she’d just been through, Anthea would have been convinced she was dreaming if she couldn’t feel her muscles complaining angrily.  Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman himself, was breaking his cold and calm demeanor to hold her close to him, despite the dirt and soot she was covered in.  He stroked her hair and pulled away to look at her.  Soot and ash in her hair, cuts and scrapes but no major injuries.  Anthea opened her mouth to speak and it was then that Mycroft noticed a bit of blood staining her lower lip.  Before he could stop himself or rationalize what he was doing, he was caught up in the moment, adrenaline pumping through his veins, and he captured that bloodstained lip between his own, suckling ever so gently and clearing the blood away.  

 

After escaping assassins and being uncertain whether or not Mycroft was even alive, this was more than Anthea could take, far more than she could have protested against.  She felt herself wilt beneath his touch, allowing his forearms to support her as she slumped back.  The tiniest of moans escaped her and he kissed her roughly as though he needed to be convinced that she was really there, that she was really real.  He pressed himself into her, leading her until her back was up against a wall.

 

By this point she’d thrown her arms around him and was kissing him back carnally, too caught up in the brilliant sensation of just being alive to consider that she might be committing career suicide.  She didn’t care, not in that moment.  She’d barely escaped with her life, she knew it, and he knew it, and she was willing to risk the consequences of allowing her passion to run away with her.  

Mycroft grabbed a handful of her breasts through the smoke-laden fabric of her blouse and made an animalistic growl.  It was very raw and very male and very unlike any sound she’d ever heard her employer make before.  She arched her back, jutting out her chest and making her breasts more pronounced.  He moaned again and tore at her blouse until it was in two pieces on the floor.  The bulletproof vest she’d been wearing underneath took more time to do away with, and his skilled fingers never fumbled once.  He was finally rewarded with the sight of her creamy breasts, full and heavy and topped with dark, pink nipples.  He captured one in his mouth and sucked at it triumphantly, causing her to whimper out loud and sending a wave of moist heat rushing to her panties.  

 

He was using his body to sandwich her between himself and the wall, and she could feel his hard cock against her thigh, straining and desperate to be released.  She rubbed her thigh against his crotch encouragingly, causing his hips to buck into her as he ground his erection against her.  

Mouth still working feverishly at her tits, Mycroft let his hands slide down her belly and hiked up her skirt.  His hands went wandering beneath her skirt and when he felt the stockings and suspender belt she wore beneath the skirt his need for her increased urgently.  Her panties were barely a wisp of satin and lace, and he deftly pushed them to the side before using his fingertips to sweep across her bared labia.  

 

Anthea let loose a high-pitched whine of pleasure as his fingers made contact with her cunt.  He teased, his fingers stroking back and forth until she was positively dripping wet.  

He moved his mouth from her breasts to her neck as his fingers flew to the waistband of his trousers.  She heard the clink of his belt and the hum of his zipper and soon, the soft thud of his pants hitting the floor.  His finely-tailored shirt was still on and the silken threads of it teased her nipples.  He kept himself pressed firmly into her, gripping one of her thighs roughly and looking into her eyes.    
He searched her eyes, looking for any trace of doubt or hesitation.  Finding nothing there but his own lust reflected back at him, he gripped her thighs tightly and inched her up the wall, letting his hard cock tease for the briefest of moments before impaling her completely.  

  
She yelped passionately and lifted first one stocking-clad leg, then the other, wrapping them around Mycroft and locking her ankles in the small of his back.  

Anthea gripped at his shoulders, helping herself stay upright.  She marveled at the strength she found rippling through his upper back, strength she’d never have known had been hiding beneath those bespoke three-piece suits he favored so highly.  “He really has been taking dieting seriously,” she found herself musing.  

He thrusted himself into her as deeply as he was able, feeling an urgent need unlike any he’d ever experienced before.  This wasn’t about making love: it was about the near-death experience they’d shared, and their desperation to feel connected to the living once more.  

Anthea squirmed and squealed as Mycroft filled her perfectly, each of his thrusts into her giving her a fresh wave of pleasure.  It had been far longer than he cared to remember since he’d had a woman, and he knew that didn’t bode well for his stamina, near-death experience or no.  Her tiny shrieks of pleasure, her warm and firm thighs around his waist, her incredible breasts and the slick, velvet-like perfection between her legs joined together to bring him to a shattering orgasm.  

He grunted, filling her to the hilt as his orgasm shuddered through him.  She moaned sweetly when she felt the white-hot sensation of his cum filling her, keeping herself wrapped around him as long as she could while he rode the waves of pleasure.  Within moments they were both quivering from exhaustion, and he slid out of her, still supporting her with his body until he ensured that her feet were steady beneath her.  

 

Mycroft allowed himself to look Anthea in the eye for only a fraction of a second before hitching his pants up from around his ankles and fastening them at his waist.  Neither of them knowing what to say, and both understanding that, sometimes, silence was preferable, Anthea stepped away from him, laying a gentle hand on his chest and a whisper of a kiss on his cheek before making her way to the bathroom for a shower.  

 

Once she’d closed the door behind her, Anthea’s knees buckled and she had to perch upon the edge of the tub in order to keep herself from falling in a heap onto the floor.  Her thoughts wanted to race through her mind unbridled, but she was disciplined and knew when not to over-analyze things.  She stripped her filthy clothes from her body and tossed them aside, shivering with pleasure as she removed her panties and felt a trickle of what Mycroft had left inside of her.  Brazenly she parted her labia and stroked herself, spreading his wetness and mixing it with her own.  She let one of her fingers slide inside, and she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning.  She reached over and turned on the water to muffle any sounds she might make and continued probing her vaginal walls, first with one finger and then another.  Knowing she might never have the opportunity again, she decided that she had to sate her curiosity.  Withdrawing her fingers slowly, she brought them to her lips and sucked in the taste of him.  It was bitter, salty and beyond erotic, all at the same time.  

Anthea threw her head back and plunged her other hand back down to her pussy.  She rubbed and stroked her clitoris with one hand, her fingers slick with his come and moving frantically.  She used her other hand to savor the smell and taste of Mycroft, so much more intimately than she’d ever dreamed.  Her muscles tensed and she gasped as she brought herself to orgasm, drunk on the memory of how Mycroft had lustily laid claim to her body.

Her whole body trembled and quivered as she managed to slip into the tub, which was now half-full of water.  She’d soak a while, she decided, before she cleaned herself off.  

 


End file.
